Ersatz Affection
by ttfn.tahtahfornow
Summary: Auror Draco Malfoy is hit by a mysterious curse, and his health takes a downward spiral.
1. One

**a/n**: Hello. I know, I should be working on DGITB (yes, I'm so lazy I have devised an acronym)… but this idea has been in my mind for _too long_, and if I don't write it now it's gonna drive me freaking inSANE. Don't worry though, it's only going to be two or three chapters, so I promise not to get behind on updates for my other story!

**summary**: His arms encase her, pressing her half-bare back against his warm abdomen, and she tries not to think of his cold and unfeeling legs touching her own. DMHG.

x.x.x

**Ersatz Affection**

x.x.x

Tangled limbs, skin slick with sweat. Warm mouths and moist breath. Dirtied and twisted sheets.

He caresses her hair, wild and sticky but perfect nonetheless. Love is perfect, is it not? And in her he has discovered it, that four-letter word for perfection. He never imagined himself capable of such. He envisioned himself years from now, an old and wrinkled man on his deathbed, as bitter and forgotten as the sludge at the bottom of an already drunk cup of coffee. Bitter and alone and unloved.

Funny how he was totally and completely wrong about himself. Because now, he is not alone, not bitter and forgotten and unloved. He has this woman, this woman in his bed and in his arms. She loves him, he is sure. He can see it in the blush that paints her cheeks when he kisses her small, freckled nose. He can feel it in her fingers when she grabs him by the arm, or holds his hand, or gently combs his hair. He bathes in her love when he ventures into her warm, brown eyes.

Those eyes have fluttered shut, her breathing evened into the deep and soft hum of unconsciousness, and he knows that she is asleep.

"I love you," he murmurs into her deaf ear.

Draco Malfoy has found love.

x.x.x

She is an orderly, logical woman. Anal-retentive, some might even say. As such, she never could have anticipated this—this _love_ thing. So chaotic, love is. So disordered and frenzied and completely irrational. Defying sense and logic. Refusing to be condensed into an Arithmancy problem.

She never thought about it much. She looked down on it, even, and on those foolish enough to fall prey to such consuming and nonsensical emotions. Until now.

Because now she has it. It's right here, in the warmth of his enveloping arms.

She is an orderly woman, yes. So very logical. But she has decided, now, that messy can be wonderful. That rational may not always best. That some things are just too spectacular to make any sense.

"I love you."

Aroused from her light sleep, she suspects that he hadn't intended for her to hear. But she does, and is thrilled.

Hermione Granger has found love.

x.x.x

He returns home, one night, many months later. Months after the courting and the kneeling and the exchanging of rings, but he loves her just the same.

He will always love her just the same.

x.x.x

_Ama in Veritate._

"It's a curse," he explains, as if she doesn't already know. As if she hadn't graduated at the top of their class just five years ago.

"I know, dear," she reminds him needlessly. "Who cast it?"

"Dunno," he replies casually. "Some rogue Death Eater. Obviously didn't know much about my wonderful married life." Draco grins, but she ignores him.

"I thought all the Death Eaters were gone."

"I'm still around, eh?"

"You know what I mean." She glares and he surrenders.

"I know, sorry. And apparently they're not."

She purses her lips but does not respond.

"The guys were going to take me to St. Mungo's, you know, just for the standard procedures, to put the curse on the records and all, but I refused. 'No thanks,' I told them. 'I've got my own personal Healer at home.'" He smiles.

"Oh, honestly!" she scoffs. "Your own personal Healer, indeed. I ought to let the damned curse run its course just to teach you a lesson."

She won't, though. Resistance is futile when he widens his smoky grey eyes like that, biting his lower lip, silently but fervently pleading forgiveness.

"Oh, you know I'm just kidding."

She kisses him deeply, lovingly.

Most call it the True Love Curse.

x.x.x

It's the weekend, and his wife is at the hospital on an emergency call.

He drops a dish. It hits the hardwood floor with a piercing clang, shattering into a dozen fragments of rough-edged porcelain.

Draco looks down at the offending hand, astonished. Never before have his limbs failed him. He curls and uncurls his fingers into a fist, slowly, as if to make sure that he is still the one in control.

But it's no big deal, really. A simple _reparo_ and the dish is as good as new, all evidence of his moment of clumsiness effectively erased.

Not important enough to merit further consideration.

x.x.x

She is in the living room, curled up on the couch, reading, when she hears the sharp "Goddamn!" from the other room.

"Draco?" she asks. "Honey, what's wrong?"

"Nothing," he calls.

But she knows better.

"What is it?" She enters the kitchen to find him standing at the counter, clutching a jar of peanut butter. "What in the world?"

"Nothing," he repeats. "It's just a bitch to open, that's all." He puts the peanut butter in the cabinet.

Hermione takes it back out, twisting off the lid with ease.

"There you are," she says and smiles. "You could have just used magic, you know."

He looks briefly stunned before responding. "Thanks, love," he says and kisses her on the forehead. "I'll keep that in mind next time."

x.x.x

Draco takes a knife and spreads the peanut butter onto a piece of white bread. Next, he grabs a banana from the counter and slices it into thin disks, placing them neatly atop the peanut-buttered bread. He sets one final piece of bread on top of the mess and puts the sandwich on a plate.

It is Hermione's favorite snack while reading, and he glares accusingly at the hands—so fickle, they're becoming—that nearly prevented him from making it.

x.x.x

He falls down the stairs one morning. Left leg, right leg, left leg, just like always. Only, all of a sudden, left leg buckles underneath him and he is sent tumbling down the wooden steps, face first, arms flailing and grasping at the air. He lands with an undignified thud.

Quickly he rights himself, back on his feet, smoothing down his clothes and combing through his tussled hair with his fingers.

He wipes his face on his sleeve, soaking the cloth with a red, sticky substance.

His nose is bleeding.

x.x.x

From the kitchen, she hears the sickening thud of a body and a floor colliding, and rushes to the origin of the sound.

At the foot of the stairs she finds him, clothes smooth, hair combed, face clean and impeccable as always. None of the disarray, it seems, that such a thud might typically entail.

"You're all right?" she questions.

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"I heard something. Did you fall?"

He raises a sleek eyebrow. "Have I ever fallen?"

No. No, he has not.

x.x.x

His hands fiddle with the tiny buttons. In vain, of course. His fingers are weak and shaky, like those of an old woman with arthritis. An elderly homemaker, with warped hands and an abandoned, forever unfinished needlepoint, perched on the top, dusty shelf of the linen closet.

He has work that morning, and he can't button his damned shirt.

Hermione is still asleep, thank God.

He grips his wand tightly and mutters a buttoning spell.

x.x.x

She watches him from the bed, watches him as he stands in front of the mirror in the early morning light. Watches him as he waves his wand and buttons his shirt.

He has never been one to use magic for simple tasks like dressing.

Odd, perhaps, but she pushes the thought to the back of her mind.

Nothing worth dwelling over.

x.x.x

"I love you," he says. "You know that, right?"

She glances quizzically into those grey eyes of his. "Of course. Of course I know. I love you, too."

"Good." He smiles and she tries not to melt. She _does_ love him, feels the same about him now as she felt about him on their wedding day, as she felt that first night they made love.

He bends down and kisses her softly.

She melts.

x.x.x

The night is dreary, and she listens to the pitter-patter of raindrops splattering across the roof, crashing to their deaths. She sighs and rolls over.

The sex isn't good. Not anymore. It's all right, she supposes, but not like it used to be. Not like when there was passion. Something's wrong with Draco now—he's too tired for passion.

Too tired for much at all.

"Let's just sleep, love," he says. "I'm exhausted."

"Are they overworking you at the Ministry?" she asks, concerned.

"No, it's not that." he responds. "I'm just… tired."

So she lets it slide. Working too hard, as always. Unwilling to admit it, as always. She'll just slip an energy-boosting potion in his orange juice the next morning.

x.x.x

He has been having inklings, lately. Tiny wisps of suspicion snaking through the back of his mind. But suspicion, he has decided, means nothing. It is the smoke of paranoia, irrational fear, nothing more.

And, really, what good does suspicion do? Having suspected can't make him feel any better if—_when_—his suspicion becomes reality. It will only make him feel worse before it does.

So he puts away the suspicion, fans out the smoke.

He is fine. She is fine. _They_ are fine.

x.x.x

She is a smart witch, Hermione Granger. She has been called the smartest witch of the century.

Yet, somehow, there are so many simple connections she cannot make. Wrong. There are so many simple connections she _will not_ make, refuses to make. Because if she studies too closely, makes too many connections, she may discover something she'd rather have not.

She may discover a hideous tear, an awful patch of ripped canvas, in the lovely portrait of her—_their_—life.

And she'd really rather not.

x.x.x

They are sitting at the table, sipping coffee and exchanging sections of the Daily Prophet.

He checks his watch. "Time to catch the bad guys," he jests, craning his neck across the remnants of their breakfast and pecking her on the cheek. "I'll see you at lunch?"

"Of course." She smiles and rises from her seat, taking the dishes to the sink.

She notices that he is still seated at the table.

"Draco? Aren't you going now?"

"Yes. Yes, I'm going. Right now."

Only he's _not_ going. He remains, sitting, where he is.

"Draco," she repeats. "What are you doing?"

"Going to work," he responds, stubborn as always.

Two minutes pass in silence as she rinses out the coffee cups, easing her frazzled nerves with the hot, soapy water.

"Hermione, love?" His body is stoic, collected and still as always. His eyes are large, pleading, confused and frightened.

"Yes?" She drops the mug and it hits the metal basin with a sharp clang.

"I can't get up."

x.x.x

Her colleagues can't determine the root of the sudden collapse of her husband's legs.

"Have you noticed anything different?" they ask. "Any prior signs of increased weakness?"

"No," she responds. "Nothing."

Yes. The sex isn't good and he can't open the peanut-butter jar.

"Has he been cursed recently, by any chance? Obviously, anything serious or life-threatening would have already been in our records, but…"

"No."

Yes. But she can't say it. Saying it would be accepting it.

Saying it would be throwing away their love.

x.x.x

The Healers give him a wheelchair. Just temporary, of course. Just while they conduct some tests. Until the results are in, though, he'll have to get used to life as a cripple.

He knows. He knows that there aren't any fucking tests to conduct. He knows that they just say that to "ease the transition." Whatever the hell that means, anyway.

x.x.x

The Ministry gives him a leave of absence. Temporary, of course. "Just 'til you're back on your feet!" the fucking Minister of Magic jokes, chuckling. Shitbag. Draco suppresses the urge to strangle him.

Only it's not a leave of absence. Not "just 'til he's back on his feet.'" He'll _never _be back on his feet and he's never going back to work and he knows it. He bloody knows it.

Paraplegic Aurors, it seems, aren't of much use.

x.x.x

Completely mysterious affliction. No known cause and no known cure—that's what he heard them tell Hermione.

All the nerves in his legs—dead. As if he is dying not as a whole, but in pieces. His legs were just the first to go, the first of his many appendages to give up on him. Perhaps next will come his arms. And who knows, maybe after that it'll be his wife.

She is at the hospital, working late, and he is sitting here, on the couch, useless legs folded awkwardly in front of him.

Dead weight.

He's skimming through one of her Healing books—the brief section on the True Love Curse, to be more specific.

"Kiss," it reads. "True love," it reads. "Your life, Draco, is a _lie,_" it reads. "A lie."

A valuable lesson he's learned from his wife: books are good. Books are honest. Books will never lie to him. Especially not about the flimsy foundations upon which he has built his life.

If he wants more lies, he is forced to feed them to himself.

x.x.x

She arrives home and finds him asleep on the couch, legs twisted at unnatural angles and looking quite cumbersome.

There is a book lying on the ottoman next to him, and she picks it up and flips absently through. The page on the True Love Curse has been dog-eared.

He knows. Draco knows.

She realizes that he has probably known all along, just as she has. Known in the dark and murky depths of his mind, as she has in hers, what has been happening.

But she is loath to acknowledge that awareness. She refuses to bring it to the forefront of her consciousness, to accept it as a fact.

Because Hermione will never, _never_ give up on their love. Not until her—_his_—last damn breath.

He stirs in his sleep, and one of his legs slips from the couch. It hits the floor with a disgusting thud. Much like the thud he made after falling down the stairs so long ago.

What? What's she thinking? She must be missing some marbles—her husband would never do a graceless thing like that. Her husband would never fall down the stairs.

The thud of his leg hitting the floor is a completely new sound to her.

x.x.x

She is in bed next to him, nearly asleep, when she feels his warm breath on her ear.

"I love you," he whispers, and she experiences a vague sense of deja vu.

"I love you, too," she whispers back. "I love you so much."

His arms encase her, pressing her half-bare back against his warm abdomen, and she tries not to think of his cold and unfeeling legs touching her own.

x.x.x

a/n: What did ya think? Soon we'll be finding out about what the heck's really going on with Draco, plus more about this True Love Curse thing. The story is only going to be two or three chapters, anyways. Oh, and anything that seems like it doesn't make sense or is unexplained will probably also come together next chapter.

Now, REVIEW. Pur-_lease_.

I need to know what you think of it. Just push the little button in the left hand corner and leave a message. Or even a word. Even an acronym.

p.s. If any of you are also reading Don't Go in the Basement, it should be updated very soon! Within a day or so. Promise. (smiley face here)

I LOVE YOU readers and super especially reviewers.


	2. Two

**a/n: ** Salvete! Sorry for the AWFUL super long wait, my school life has been INSANE. Yes, INSANE in all CAPS. I tried updating this weekend, but the site was being a grrface.

**summary:** His arms encase her, pressing her half-bare back against his warm abdomen, and she tries not to think of his cold and unfeeling legs touching her own. DMHG.

x.x.x

**Ersatz Affection**

x.x.x

She hates his legs.

Not because they're grotesque or hideous or anything of the sort. No, in fact, they look just the same as they did when she loved them.

But how can she love them now? They are traitors in the worst possible way.

They have succumbed. They have surrendered. They have given up on her love.

And the rest of him will, too. Soon enough.

Damn those weak, faithless legs.

x.x.x

Ama in Veritate, _directly translated as "Love in Truth" and more commonly known as the True Love Curse:_

_The True Love Curse is magic of an extremely Dark nature and has been strictly banned in nearly all Wizarding societies._

x.x.x

He opens his eyes slowly, tentatively, bracing himself for the inevitable, cold rush of consciousness.

Cold, indeed. Cold like the carefully fluffed pillow perched delicately beside his own. Cold like the smooth, pristine sheets on her side of the bed.

She has taken to sleeping on the couch. He would be more comfortable now, she told him, if he had the bed to himself. Himself and his awful legs—the legs she cannot seem to look at without scowling or crying or quietly excusing herself from the room. She is polite enough, though, to have left at least that much unsaid.

But she was wrong, anyway. For once, Hermione was wrong. Because he's not comfortable. Not at all.

Just cold.

x.x.x

Mornings are quickly becoming a horrid routine. Because horrid is what it is, no? Isn't it horrid when buttoning her husband's shirt and tying his shoes becomes a routine? Isn't it horrid when helping her husband pull a pair of stiff, starched pants over a pair of stiff, starched legs becomes a routine, just a typical part of her morning?

Hermione would have thought so. Before, at least.

But now, she can't tell. Because now, it's a routine. A routine can't be horrid, can it? Just a typical part of her morning. Just a typical part of her life.

When did her life become horrid?

x.x.x

Each morning he opens his eyes. Each morning he is greeted by a hatefully empty bed.

Each morning is the same, yet each morning different.

The bed, the nightstand—his surroundings are changing. Constantly changing. Or maybe he is changing?

Edges are not sharp and clean, but blurred and round. They are sagging with exhaustion.

He sympathizes.

The sun rose slightly dimmer this morning than it did yesterday. A little less piercing and brilliant. The world he has woken up to is just a bit darker, a bit fuzzier, a bit more faded. Like a worn memory.

_Has_ he woken up?

x.x.x

_Debates continue about the exact origins of this curse, but most historians believe it to have been created sometime during the Middle Ages by a certain Madame Esme Parpersonne._

x.x.x

He is standing—no, wait, he doesn't _stand_—in the bathroom, nose pressed against the cool glass of the mirror. That man—damn it, who is he? Behind the glass there, who is he?

Draco leans in a bit more, but can't get quite close enough to tell. His nose is in the way.

x.x.x

He is brushing his hair. Or, he's pretty sure he is.

His hand is wrapped around some sort of handle—it feels like that of a hairbrush, anyway. And he's almost certain that the tiny feet scampering across his scalp and through his hair are bristles.

And, hey, he's getting the hang of this. He's really getting the hang of this and he's grooming himself just fine, just like always, and he won't have to worry Hermione.

Nothing is wrong.

Until his arm turns against him, the filthy traitor. He feels the backside of the brush (because, yes, he is positive now that it's a brush), the wooden paddle, whap him in the forehead. Hard.

Well, fuck, but that'll leave a mark.

He considers casting a glamour charm, but decides not to risk using his wand. He might impale himself.

x.x.x

"What's that, dear?"

"What's what?"

"Your forehead—is that a bruise? It's awful."

"Oh, it's nothing."

"How did it happen? When?"

"Oh, it's no big deal. Hairbrush, I think. The other day."

His explanation is lacking, but she understands.

His arms have been doing that lately—jerking, convulsing, hitting him with either his hands or whatever might happen to be in them.

Do they know something, his arms? Can two bodily extremities recognize lies, sins? Are they punishing him?

She has always been against corporal punishment.

x.x.x

She hates his arms.

x.x.x

_Not much is known about Parpersonne, though many have speculated that she struggled through a turbulent private life. She is rumored to have committed suicide after killing off each of a long string of lovers; each death, including her own, a result of the curse._

x.x.x

He is sitting on the couch, nose in a book, when she walks in. She wonders what he's reading and glances at the cover.

"Draco?" she asks. "Draco what are you doing?"

He flips a page. "I'm brushing my teeth, dear. Couldn't you tell?"

She huffs. "No need for sarcasm. You know, if you're actually planning on reading that, you might want to at least turn it right-side up."

His grey eyes widen and he drops the book with a start. "I wasn't much in the mood for reading, anyway."

Any other time, Hermione might have laughed.

x.x.x

Never in his life has he needed spectacles.

Brilliant eyesight, the Healers told him barely two years ago at the routine checkup. Like an eagle. 20/20. Perfect vision.

And now his wife is wheeling him out of the drugstore. He has just finished trying on at least twenty different pairs of reading glasses.

None were strong enough.

"How about these?" she would say after handing him a new pair. Then she'd back away, slowly, and hold up her hand. "How many fingers?"

He would shake his head.

She would inch toward him. "How about now?"

He would shake his head.

She would bend down and lean toward him until their faces were mere centimeters apart, her soft breath on his cheek. "Now?" she would whisper.

No, no, no. He would shake his head.

She is nothing but a peach and brown blur.

He can feel the hot tears welling up. The stinging warmth of the salty liquid gives him a strange sense of satisfaction, and he tries not to blink.

What does it matter? No amount of tears can interfere with his vision now.

Everything important has already been twisted, distorted into a shapeless, meaningless blur.

She is a blur.

His life is a blur.

x.x.x

She hates his eyes, now, too.

She hates his faithless legs and his vindictive arms and his clouded eyes.

Because she loves him. She loves him.

Why can't his body realize that?

The room is dark, and he is in bed, asleep. She vaguely notices how awkward and burdensome his arms look without a body to hold close. Without her. For a second, she considers getting into bed and giving those arms the body they're seeking.

But she can't. Because she hates them, remember? Or, perhaps, they hate her.

Draco loves her, doesn't he? Why can't his arms?

x.x.x

_Symptoms experienced by a victim include: increased fatigue and weakness, degeneration of motor skills (including shakiness and/or increased clumsiness), eventual full-body paralysis (usually beginning with outermost extremities, such as fingers, toes, and occasionally arms or legs), and eventual failure of all bodily organs (typically beginning with the lesser, non-vital organs, such as eyes)._

x.x.x

"Your move."

"I know," he responds, but does nothing. He can't quite focus on the board in front of him.

"How are…" She coughs. "How are your legs?"

He looks up from the chessboard, surprised. Not once since his return from the hospital has she mentioned his legs. Not when she transfigured the stairs into a ramp and set up handrails in the bathroom. Not when she stopped sleeping in the bed with him. Not each morning when she stands behind him, small arms wrapped around his waist, providing remarkably strong support, as he struggles to yank up his trousers.

"About the same," he responds.

"I've talked to some friends," she continues nervously. "You know, from the hospital. They… well, they're doing all sorts of tests, you know, and…"

"Stop," he whispers.

"Pardon? I didn't catch that, love."

"I said _stop_, Hermione! They're not doing anything worth a fuck and you know it. There's nothing they _can _do and you know it. We both know it. Let's just stop pretending."

"How can you say that?" she exclaims. "You can't just—you can't—you're not just giving up, are you?"

"I'm not getting better, dear." He adjusts his new, magically strengthened glasses on the bridge of his nose. They make the edges sharper, but fail to make anything brighter.

"No," she says. Her shoulders are shaking, her breathing ragged. "No, no, no! Don't lie to me like that, Draco. _Don't lie to me_." Her voice has gone shrill. "I love you, for God's sake! _I love you_, Draco Malfoy, and _damn it_, you are _going_ to get better!"

He shakes his head slowly, somberly, and reaches a trembling hand out to comfort the equally trembling woman in front of him.

Unexpectedly, she leans over the board and grabs his shirt.

She kisses him.

So rough. So desperate.

He loves the feel of her lips against his own. He loves the taste of her tongue on his. He loves the scent of her hair under his nose.

He loves her.

He pulls away.

"You know I love you, dear. I love you more than _anything_. More than… More than I've ever loved anyone. But I'm just not getting better."

"That's not good enough. You have to get well! You have to be all right!"

He only now notices that the chessboard has been ruined. The soldiers are keeled over on their sides, littered across the battlefield. No survivors.

"Oh, no!" his wife exclaims. "We've knocked down all the pieces. We'll have to start all over." She kneels down and gathers all of the tiny, fallen men.

"It's all right," he says. "I wasn't much in the mood for chess, anyway."

She sighs, dropping the miniscule casualties into the dank wooden box—their communal tomb. "I wish we could've finished the game, at least. I'd just made a very important move."

x.x.x

_To date, there is no magic counter to the True Love Curse, nor is there any medicinal cure. Only one method of reversing the effects of the curse currently exists:_

x.x.x

Fork to mouth, fork to mouth, fork to mouth.

He grips the metal utensil desperately, holding on for dear life, and brings it to his lips with painstaking care.

He eats a pea.

His arm jerks. The acute clang of metal meeting wood reverberates through his ears.

It's fork to mouth, damn it, not fork to floor.

His wife bends down and picks up the fork. She wipes it on the edge of her sleeve before handing it back to him.

Look—she can clean the fork. Can't she clean him? Can't she make him pure?

x.x.x

"It's not _fair_!" she whispers harshly. To whom, she is not sure.

Her husband is in the other room, reading, although she suspects that his eyes are too far gone by now to make out any words, even with magic glasses and large-print books.

"It's. Not. Bloody. Fair."

Why? Why this torture?

Why is this _happening_?

He has her. He should be fine.

What did she do wrong?

She's always had a thing for brunets—is that it? Oh, and there was that time she got distracted at work and arrived at his birthday dinner two hours late. Or perhaps it's the fact that she missed his father's funeral?

No, surely none of those—peccadilloes?—is deserving of such extreme punishment. Surely not?

She loves him. He loves her. Plain and simple, no? Surely that's good enough. Surely?

She suddenly wishes for simple, beautiful, corporal punishment. God, how she wants to see the bruises.

"Fuck."

x.x.x

"Fuck."

He is sitting on the couch, holding a book and attempting some semblance of normalcy, when he hears the sharp exclamation.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK!"

"Honey?" he calls, unable to do much more. "Honey, is something wrong?"

"YES!" she shrieks from the kitchen. "Yes, GOD DAMN IT, something is WRONG."

She storms into the living room. From what he can tell, her face is red, blotchy, and tearstained. Her hair looks a tangled mess—has she been pulling it?

"What is it?" he asks. "What's wrong?"

"You," she responds, her tone somewhat accusatory. She hiccups. "You're not getting any better!"

Perhaps "Nyah-nyah, told you so," would be inappropriate?

"I know, dear. I'm sorry."

She kisses him gently.

He wishes she could simply kiss him better.

x.x.x

_A kiss of true love._

x.x.x

She can't.

x.x.x

He is sleeping again and she is watching again.

She leans over and kisses him. Light, feathery kisses, trailing over his forehead, his cheeks, his nose, across his jaw line, his chin, up and down his neck, and finally resting on his tired, unresponsive lips.

She tiptoes to the other side of the bed, where she gingerly crawls under the warm, safe covers. She leans into his chest and feels his arms unconsciously wrap around her.

She hates them, yes.

But she loves him.

x.x.x

Early morning light pours in through the window.

It doesn't dance around her wild curls, though. It doesn't illuminate her healthy skin. Instead it falls, limp and dull, onto the stretch of sheets beside him.

Still he is unused to waking up alone.

Something has changed, though. Hasn't it? Aren't the sheets on her side of the bed warmer than they were last night? Doesn't her pillow look a bit more rumpled?

No, no of course not. It's not enough for his body to turn against him, is it? His sadistic imagination has to turn against him, too.

x.x.x

_Of course, there are ongoing debates about the meaning of "true love." Some Wizards believe that "true love" is the purest form of the emotion, and a "kiss of true love" may be shared between any two persons who share such an emotion. Others believe that "a kiss of true love" can be shared only between Soul Mates. The existence of Soul Mates, however, may be subject to debate._

x.x.x

"I love you," he says.

"Please," she whispers. "Are you lying to me?"

"Have I ever lied to you?"

No. No, he has not.

x.x.x

_Supposedly, the matter of "true love" is currently being studied in the Department of Mysteries, located in the Ministry of Magic in Britain. It is thought that several Unspeakables are working to define the term "true love."_

x.x.x

Who was that Death Eater? Draco remembers laughing, just a little, at his wasted last words. He remembers thinking that his curse of choice would have been fitting, maybe even poetically just, four or five or six years ago. Before he found her.

He remembers those days well. Cold, so cold. Cold like coffee sludge. Cold like he was—_is?_

Is he coffee sludge, after all?

He's not sure. He rolls over in bed, listening to the soft rustling of the sheets against his body. _Hush, hush_.

He's cold.

x.x.x

**a/n**: Only one chapter left!

Did anyone catch the meaning of Esme's name? It might take a trip to for the first and an online French to English translator for the last. Or, at least, that's what it took for me. I know nothing about French, so if anyone does I'd love for you to let me know… Oodles of cookies to anyone who got that.

**PLEASE** review. It might not SEEM like it, but reviews really do keep the wait shorter. And they make me happy. :)

LOVE YA.


	3. Three

**a/n**: This update is insanely late, I know. Lo siento mucho! School, orchestra, exams, etc. have all been crazier than—well, they've been CRAZY. But, anywho, school is out now (thank God) and so I can post the FINAL CHAPTER of this story. EEPS! (Yesh, I'm excited. Hope you are too).

**summary**: His arms encase her, pressing her half-bare back against his warm abdomen, and she tries not to think of his cold and unfeeling legs touching her own. DMHG.

x.x.x

Ersatz Affection

x.x.x

She finds herself wondering what a Soul Mate is. What Soul Mates are.

Is love between Soul Mates purer? Better? More justified in its existence? Maybe Soul Mates never argue? Maybe they have better sex?

She loves her husband. And the sex is always good. Or, it was good. Before. Before he got tired and before his legs stopped working.

Now they don't have sex.

But she still loves him. Shouldn't that mean something? She _still loves him._

Apparently that isn't good enough.

But she loves him more than anyone. He is her world.

And he loves her, too. She's sure of it.

That is good enough for her.

It should be good enough for a fucking spell. It should be good enough for the rest of the fucking world.

Her world is falling to pieces.

x.x.x

"Aren't you _mad?_" Hermione exclaims.

"Mad about you, dear," he responds. He even grins, just a little.

She sighs and he wants to swallow that sad, beautiful breath. To devour even just that tiny ghost of her, to feel her warm him from the inside out. Like Butterbeer, maybe, only so much nicer.

Maybe then he wouldn't be so cold.

He yawns and imagines that he is breathing her in.

"Draco," she says. "Draco, don't you understand? It isn't _right_ or—or _fair!_ You don't deserve this. _We_ don't deserve this. What about our love? Doesn't that matter at all?"

"It matters to me, dear, but I assume that that's about it."

Silence.

She coolly leaves the room and he is left alone and cold.

x.x.x

True love. If he were a philosopher, he'd spout off a few quips like "What is truth?" and "What is love?" and then go on a tangent about the abstraction and ultimate meaninglessness of such a phrase.

But he is not a philosopher. He is just a man. A man who imagines he knows a teensy bit about truth and a teensy bit more about love.

Absolute and unconditional truth is rare. Absolute and unconditional love is rarer. He realizes this.

But Draco thinks that he has stumbled across both. And with just a few words. Just a few words arranged in the right order and said to the right person.

_I love you._

He loves Hermione. Absolutely. Unconditionally. And that is all the truth he needs, really.

His head is pounding and every part of his body that isn't already dead aches with the dull, stubborn pain of resistance.

That is about all of the philosophy he can handle right now.

x.x.x

Sitting in the cramped hospital waiting room, he wonders about Soul Mates. Perhaps it's a phrase to be taken literally? Perhaps, he decides, that in order to be a Soul Mate he must first have a soul.

He wonders. He has never really thought of people as having _souls_. What a cruel idea—to give man a soul and then chain it to a body. What a sickening sort of limbo.

He picks up a shabby fashion magazine from two years ago and flips through while he passes the time. Damned waiting rooms.

x.x.x

The Healers have been conducting tests.

The mysterious affliction is progressing at an alarming rate.

Progressing is their word. Draco would choose degenerating or destroying or just plain killing.

Yes, killing would be a better choice of words.

The mysterious affliction is killing at an alarming rate..

x.x.x

"Why don't you just say it?" he asks. "Just _say_ it, for God's sake! It's just a fucking word!"

"Mr. Malfoy!" the Healer exclaims. Apparently he has offended her sense of decency.

"Terminal! _Terminal,_ God damn it, just tell me it's terminal!"

"Mr. Malfoy! Please! Your affliction is seemingly quite unique. We are performing the tests as quickly as we can, but obviously we have no way of determining whether or not such an affliction is—"

He's angry. God how he's angry. Why can't they just let him what's wrong? Why all these God damned tests? There are none, there are none, _there are none._

Is this what Hermione meant when she asked if he was mad? Yes, he could say to her right now. Yes, he could say, I am fucking well _mad_.

"I don't need a fucking test—"

"Please!"

"—to tell me that I'm going to die. Soon. That's what's fucking _obvious_ and you should all be fucking _sued_ for exploitation."

"Please! Mr. Malfoy! I understand that what you're going through is extremely difficult, but please do try to hold yourself together."

"Can't. Sorry."

No sarcasm, either. He really can't.

He's fucking well _mad_.

He is falling to pieces.

x.x.x

"You know, it's funny, really."

"What is?" she asks, poking at her carrots.

"This grieving," he says and takes a sip of water. "I mean, I'm not dead yet, am I?"

"Draco, I don't know what you're talking about."

"Denial still? I thought we'd moved on to anger."

"Draco, what—"

She feels sick.

Hermione springs out of her chair and runs upstairs—or perhaps _upramp_ would be more appropriate. When she reaches the bathroom, she kneels on the hard, cold tile and clutches the hard, cold porcelain and thinks about her hard, cold husband.

She purges her grief.

God, it's a mess.

x.x.x

He takes another sip of water and looks at the empty seat next to him. Something about being alone at the dinner table unnerves him.

He idly picks a baby carrot from her abandoned plate and pops it into his mouth. When he feels the cold vegetable on his tongue, though, he quickly spits it back into his hand.

He remembers now that he hates carrots. Doesn't much care for any vegetables, really, but he especially dislikes carrots.

x.x.x

She's not grieving him. Of course not.

He's not dead. Of course not.

So what is she grieving, then?

x.x.x

Morning.

She lightly nudges him awake, as usual. His clothes are laid out on the dresser, as usual.

At least the clothes are ready to start a new day.

"I love you," he murmurs. His eyes are hazy, fogged over, but she doesn't know the reason why. Or, she knows several reasons why and can't decide which is currently most accurate. "God, how I love you."

She wants to believe him, wants to so much.

And so she does. Simple.

She can't stop herself from wondering how long he he has been lying to her.

"I love you, too," she whispers.

x.x.x

"I love you, too," she whispers, and her voice is so tiny and fragile and scared.

He sighs.

He isn't much in the mood for love, anyway.

x.x.x

"Draco," she says. "I—I think—I know you hate it when I tell you this, but I am a Healer, after all, and I've talked to the others—"

"Therefore," he cuts in, "my diagnosis should be obvious to you, shouldn't it? If they're telling you I'll get well, dear, then they're a bunch of lying, sympathetic sods."

"Fuck!" she exclaims. "Fuck all, Draco, just stop this stupid fucking self pity! You can't just _give up!_ I won't let you! There are ways to make you better."

"Oh really?" he whispers, because speaking too loudly hurts. "How do you expect my legs to start working again? My eyes? Magic, is that what you think will fix me?"

"Well it could, if you'd just give it a chance!"

"Magic can't fix everything, Hermione. Magic can't bring the dead back to life."

She glares. "My apologies. I was under the impression that you weren't dead yet."

He grimaces Lightly, though, because his head is aching all over and too much emotion hurts. "Well, you always were observant, dear. I'm not dead yet. Just most of me."

x.x.x

She can't help but wonder that night, curled in a lonesome ball on the living room sofa, just how much he means by most.

x.x.x

He wonders, lying sprawled out in the big cold bed, if his wife could be considered a survivor of this mysterious affliction. Have there even been survivors?

x.x.x

"Of course there—Draco, what are you _thinking?_ It's not the killing curse for God's sake!"

She's right, of course. She's always right.

It's so much worse.

"Just answer the question, Hermione."

"Yes, yes, of course there have been—I mean, it's extremely rare, but the curse is extremely rare in and of itself. I doubt most of my colleagues have even heard of it. But yes. There have been. I did some research."

He realizes that this is the only time he and his wife have ever directly mentioned the curse since that day when—since that day.

He decides his wife could not be considered a survivor. He hates these survivors.

God damn them all.

x.x.x

"Honey," he says. "Honey, turn up the Wizarding Wireless a little, would you please? I can't hear the news."

Hermione sighs. "Draco, it's already too loud."

"Just a _tiny_ bit. Please?"

"Fine."

His wife gets up from the couch and fiddles with the Wireless, leaving an impression in the cushion beside him. He can feel the tendrils of cold air creeping into the empty space, and he wishes that she would hurry up with the volume. He hates always having empty seats next to him.

"What are you fiddling around for, Hermione? Just turn the volume up a little."

"I did!" she exclaims, facing him but still standing by the Wireless. "It's on full volume and it's hurting my ears."

He scrunches his face in confusion. "You can't have turned it all the way up," he insists. "I still can't hear it."

She sighs again, and he watches the trembling of her red little lips.

Her lips.

He takes his glasses off—no reason, no reason, there's just a smudge. A smudge on the lens and he needs to get it off. He wipes it on his shirt.

His wife is far away and silent.

"Honey?" he says, glasses still in his hand. "Hermione? Just—just—say something."

She says nothing.

"Hermione?"

Silence.

How long has he been reading her lips?

x.x.x

He abruptly wakes up at three o'clock that morning with a startling realization.

He can still read with his glasses. His eyes aren't totally useless yet, after all.

He almost laughs, but stops himself, because that is nothing to be happy about.

x.x.x

"They still haven't figured out what went wrong?" Harry asks.

She shakes her head, observing the wet trail of steam as it rises slowly from his mug. It drifts away from the dark pool of coffee and into the tense air of the kitchen.

"No," she says. "No, they haven't figured it out. They suspect some sort of Dark spell, but that's about it."

Now he raises the cup to his lips and they suck in the warm dark liquid like a tiny vacuum. The steam continues to drift into eternity.

He puts down the coffee. "I don't want to be rude—" His mouth opens and closes a few times. "Do you know how—I mean, I'm worried that—well, I'm concerned for him and you both—"

"No, Harry. We don't know how long. I'd have to—" She chokes. "—I'd have to guess not very."

He says nothing.

She inclines her head towards his mug. "Finished?"

He nods.

She takes it to the sink and rinses out the last dregs of bitter sludge. She watches the brown mix with the clear as the last cold drops of unwanted coffee swirl down the drain.

She is thinking about the steam.

"Harry?" she asks.

"Hmm?"

"Do you know what happens to steam—I mean, do you know where the steam goes?"

He looks confused. "Is this some sort of code?"

She smiles, just a little. "No, no. I was just wondering. That's all."

"Erm. . . I think steam is just water vapor. So I guess it evaporates and then condenses, like a cloud. And then I suppose, if it were part of a cloud, it would eventually come back down in the form of rain. Why are you asking me this, Hermione? You know a lot more about science than I do."

She nods.

He's right, of course. She does know more about science. That must be why she finds his explanation so unsatisfying.

x.x.x

It is one in the afternoon, and her husband is in bed. He is always in bed now, though she isn't quite sure what keeps him there. The paralysis? The fatigue? The fact that he has nowhere else to go?

She caresses his jaw, tenderly prying it open. She raises the spoon into his mouth and softly pushes his mouth closed around the metal utensil, urging him to swallow.

Feeding him.

He doesn't.

Instead he gags, and the vegetable slop is now all over his chin, his neck, his shirt, his pillow.

Hermione dashes to the bathroom and wets a towel. She rubs slow, gentle circles over his face and his neck with the cool, wet cloth.

Cleaning him.

There are magical methods of handling such messy tasks, certainly. But she does not use them. Will not use them.

She will not allow them to become slaves of Magic. Or, she will not acknowledge their enslavement any more than necessary.

And maybe she misses touching him, just a little. Craves it, just a little. Even if instead of making love to him she's just wiping the cold soup off his chin.

"I really do love you, Draco."

He blinks.

x.x.x

"I really do love you, Draco."

He can't hear you. He can't see you. But he knows what you're saying.

He loves you too, dear. He loves you so much. He wants to jump from this bed and wrap his arms around you and just squeeze you. He would never let go.

Too late, though. It seems he has already somehow made the mistake of letting go, and no amount of wanting and loving can make his soggy arms crisp again.

He will never hug you again.

Epiphany.

He knows what you're saying. You're saying: "Draco Malfoy, you are not coffee sludge."

He blinks.

x.x.x

He's gone.

x.x.x

She can no longer feel his breath on her knuckles.

She finishes cleaning his face, then gently changes his shirt.

His chest is no longer rising and falling. Or, it has fallen and is no longer rising.

She lifts his head off of the wet pillow and onto a dry one, running her fingers through his soft, dead hair. That's what hair is, isn't it? Hair is dead.

She washed his hair last night, and now it is as lovely and silky and neat as ever.

Dead as ever.

His hair has always been one of her husband's nicest features.

"I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. Don't you understand, Draco? Darling? I can save you. I love you!"

His lips are still soft, still slightly warm. But not for long.

Her mouth now tastes like vegetables—carrots, mostly—but she kisses him again anyway.

He is not a lost cause. Or, he is no more of a lost cause dead than alive.

x.x.x

_Draco Lucius Malfoy._

His ersatz affection was worth a thousand true loves.

x.x.x

Her friends aren't quite pleased with the epitaph, but she forgives them.

"Ersatz?" she hears Ron whisper to one of the twins. "I don't think she picked quite the right word. It makes him sound like a cheap coffee substitute or something."

Coffee. She thinks of steam.

"How sad," Ginny says to her. "It almost makes it sound as though he didn't really love you—and we all know how ridiculous that is."

Well if he had he'd be alive, wouldn't he?

_Wouldn't_ he?

Ginny doesn't understand, though. All Ginny knows, all Hermione has told her, is that he was hit with a stray curse while on duty, and his health had been steadily declining ever since.

More than she ever told the Healers, anyway.

Hermione sighs and her breath is lost in the atmosphere.

She thinks of steam.

x.x.x

The sympathy cards are still trickling in. Acquaintances inquiring into the unfortunate circumstances of her late husband's untimely death.

The death certificate reads: "Cause of Death: Accidental/Unknown."

It isn't quite right, she decides. But it isn't quite wrong either.

She likes to say that he died of a broken heart.

x.x.x

It's raining today. Whenever it rains now she thinks of steam.

Whenever it rains now she murmurs little prayers to the sky.

For the steam, mostly. She prays that some of it will escape the clouds and the rain. She prays that some will escape the cycle and the world and float into the atmosphere. Or eternity. Or just simply away.

Whenever it rains now she remembers that she is a widow.

x.x.x

She hates the bed. She sleeps on the couch, curled in a lonesome ball, and listens to the rain.

She's used to it.

x.x.x

If even steam can escape, then surely that too is not marked Soul Mates Only?

Please God let the steam escape.

x.x.x

Escape.

She sits on a little mound of grass, leaning on one of the many cold headstones and plucking a few dandelions. Weeds.

"I love you," she whispers.

She pretends that he is not slowly decomposing within his tiny plot of earth. She pretends that he is not lying motionless while the worms and the maggots consume his beauty.

She vaguely remembers him telling her something once. God, it feels like ages ago. Telling her to stop pretending.

But she has always been a bit headstrong.

She pretends that he is standing next to her, stroking her hair and murmuring sweet nothings into her ear. She pretends she can feel his warm breath on her neck.

She pretends that she knows what love is.

Why should she care if it's a lie?

Some things are too beautiful to be logical, no? What was it that she used to think again? Something about logic and truth, she remembers. Logic and truth.

Maybe some things are too beautiful to be true.

x.x.x

_End._

**a/n:** Just to let you all know, Esme's name meant "loved by no one." Apparently no one and any one are the same in French or something. . . but, please, if you know French, correct me. I just went used an online translator (and for her first name). Also, I know that in one section of the story I switched from the usual third person (he/she) to second person (you). It was on purpose, really! I just didn't want my lovely readers thinking I had poor grammar or something.

Thanks for reading everyone! The story's over now (in case you somehow didn't realize. . .), so if you can possibly come up with any sort of comments or constructive criticism or just a few words to let me know you read it, I'd _really _appreciate it if you just left it in a nice (or nasty, whatever) little review. It makes me smile to know I have readers. Especially readers who take the time to leave a message.

Love to all, claro que si.

p.s. If you don't feel like reviewing for the story's sake, mebe I should let you know that I recently turned sixteen and reviews would make wonderful (slightly belated) birthday presents!

p.p.s. Just a question - do you think I should up the rating of this story to M? I can't decide but I certainly don't want to be booted from the site. Tell me what you think, purlease. 


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